


Feast

by ikoliholic



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Food Kink, Loki Does What He Wants, M/M, Post-Thor: The Dark World, Pre-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Pseudo-Incest, y'know...just a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 17:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12392310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikoliholic/pseuds/ikoliholic
Summary: With worrying visions and questions clouding his mind, Thor returns to Asgard for answers. He does not expect a feast laid out for solely him to devour…





	Feast

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly just a dirty little oneshot and most certainly not canon compliant, I'd wager ;)
> 
> I NEED RAGNAROK LIKE NOW!

Loki adds the final large platter to the table, silver and solid. He could have had a dozen servants set the feast up, of course, but he wanted the satisfaction all for himself— greedy, giddy and keen with anticipation for his brother’s return.

Having long grown careless in his distraction, Loki is completing today’s solitary task not under the guise of Odin—now so second nature to him— but rather delightfully and carelessly as _himself_.

No illusions. He has his reasons.

Well, he’s not _completely_ careless of course; he’d put a spell on the Feast Hall’s doors first, along with simple glamour cast across the entire external walls. Even chaos needs a little forethought. Before that, he had earlier in the morning made clear that no soul was to enter the room under any circumstances until commanded otherwise. Despite the strangeness of the request, none would defy the All-Father’s command. Of course.

This fact itself still angers Loki more than it should. Sometimes he wonders if his madness has gone beyond repair.

Casting the thought to the back of his mind, he instead focuses on what literally lies in front of him — a nearly unfathomable mountain of the most delicious foods any Realm has to offer, crafted in painstaking display. There are mouth-watering cuts of the finest meats and fish, prepared fruits and vegetables of every size, shape and colour. Sauces, jams, condiments. Elegant cakes and pastries— freshly prepared and stickily syrupy, just how his brother likes them.

Loki inhales deeply the emanating aroma, runs tongue across thin lips. As a final touch, he adjusts a platter laden with the richest apples— recently and sneakily plucked with his own fingers from Idunn’s Orchard mere hours before, admiring the varying hues of blushing pink through to forest green.

He eyes the richest, reddest apple of them all, stomach offering a growl and mouth salivating at the thought of its sweet taste.

Loki is starved, but he does not take so much as a morsel.

Not yet, anyway.

He waits.

***

As soon as Thor reaches Asgard, he can tell immediately something’s amiss. Can feel it in the very air of the Observatory; his skin tingles and his bones ache with it, and it’s impossible for the concern not to etch itself onto his face.

Heimdall’s face is etched with worry too, though he says little to Thor other than welcoming him. “Thor, it is good to see you once again.”

“I have returned with concern, Heimdall,” Thor replies, fearing the time for niceties long over.

“I share such worry,” Heimdall replies, looking down to the golden ground. “Once you have spoken to the king, we would confer in greater detail.”

Thor nods, then makes his way across the Bifröst, toward the citadel. He’s barely made it up the third set of imposing stairs when he’s accosted by a guard, telling him the All-Father is presently expecting his presence in the Feasting Hall. Thor nods again and turns on his feet, heart-heavy and temper simmering.

Once he nears his destination, he isn’t surprised to see the surrounding coves and corridors as fragmented illusion. Everything is so shattered now, and it’s almost painful just _how_ clear it is to see. To think, one time he would have foolishly blundered through and missed obvious signs such as this…

Still, he must try to keep patient, remember the bigger issues at play.

As he approaches the Hall itself, its ornate doors crawl open to reveal a familiar sight. Ornateness, extravagance almost beyond his comprehension, especially after spending time dwelling on Midgard. He wonders if this place were ever truly his home; it’s increasingly difficult to remember any fondness here.

The feasting table is filled to capacity with food. Sweet, savoury, succulent and from all corners of the lands. Such highlights include tender roasted boar, reddest and rarest liggenberries, dusted in snow from Alfheimr mountaintops, heaps of seared fish with steamed vegetables and creamed potatoes, and finally an assortment of Thor’s favourite fruit cakes, puddings and pastries.

All of it remains untouched.

There is no-one in the room, save for the illusion that Loki wears.

He’s sat at the head of the table, of course; Odin’s eye beaming across the furniture, saying everything and nothing at once.

Thor pulls up an overly-ornate dining seat at the opposite end, the drag of metal scraping through the entire room.

He would play his brother’s game, if it is what’s necessary.

“A feast fit truly for a king,” Thor notes, glaring at _Odin’s_ one eye, faux-frail encased in the face of a liar and a traitor.

“Indeed,” is the one-worded response Thor gets.

They sit in stony silence. Thor does not even give the sticky orange fingerbuns a second glance, feeling quite nauseous.

“Are you not going to eat, my son?” Odin’s voice is faultless, though perhaps a little too gentle. “I even had your favourite sweet meats prepared _just_ how you like them.”

Thor has to bite back his rage. Only _Loki_ would know this, and he wonders then if this is not all merely a guise, but somehow a test.

Knowing his brother, most likely a nauseating combination of the two.

“I fear I have lost my infamous appetite of recent,” Thor responds, picking up his fork only to put it straight back down.

“A pity. ”

“Are you expecting other company,” Thor asks, “or is this decadent feast for yourself alone?”

“How you wound me, Thor. This is to celebrate the arrival of my only son back to the realm.” As Thor’s eyebrow quirks in response— _how did you know I was to return_ —Loki continues in a rush. “Heimdall had spoken of your intentions. I have not told any others yet, as I do not quite know the _fleeting nature_ of your visit.”

“Wise,” Thor says, with little care. He doesn’t believe a silver-tongued word of it. “But father, you needn’t have gone through the trouble—”

“Well you needn’t have bothered to _come_.”

Thor’s jaw clenches and suddenly he has an overwhelming urge to stand bolt-upright, the heavy chair toppling on its side.

Unwise and unthinking, or perhaps thinking clearer than he has in the past five years, Thor steps onto the feast table.

In a calm —and all the more terrifying for it— manner, he kicks some bits out of the way, but mostly just ignores anything blocking his path; glass and metal, opulent foods ruined beneath his feet with audible squash and crunch. Mjolnir bristles at his side, sensing the impending danger and begging to be touched for it, but Thor does not heed to her call.

Instead, he locks eyes on his target. Still the guise of his father before him, but he knows without question who lies beneath the illusion. He’d laugh at the restrained panic in his brother’s face right now— if it wasn’t all so sad.

He halts half-way across the feast, to say one word only:

“Brother.”

To give Loki his due, the glamour shatters within a fraction of a second, and all that Thor is left with is a scathing, mocking smile, teeth bared and shining under the scattered candlelight.

Thor remains still on the spot as they stare at each other in silence, sizing each other up. Then, without breaking eye contact, Loki picks up the blood-reddest apple of them all from the feast and bites it deeply, the rich juices running down from his mouth toward his chin.

Thor can just about hear the whimper of delight in the back of his brother’s throat as he chews and swallows it down.

Throwing the apple back to the platter but missing— evidently lacking in his usual finesse, Loki then swirls his finger over the rim of his wine goblet, delicate and giggly. His cheeks are a crimson blush, eyes a most pleasant and sparkling blue-green, and if Thor didn’t know any better, he’d say his little brother was a little bit drunk.

For some reason unknown, the thought of it is enough to flood Thor’s own cheeks with heat and colour. He is ready to attack, but something deep within makes him falter. Mjolnir wails at his restraint, thirsty for chaos and blood.

“Before you begin any hasty accusation, Odin still lives.” Loki slurs his words, just ever so slightly. Regret flashes through green eyes before he continues in a mutter, “Far be it for _me_ to achieve such a tumultuous task.”

Thor says nothing in return.

“So,” Loki’s tongue traces across upper lip, “I’m supposing your next accusation is how fast can I cower away this time?” He takes another sip of his drink. “Will I run? Stay? _Attack_?”

The rhetoric remains ignored by Thor, so Loki gives a gentle sigh. “ _Well_ , you and your hammer are rather in luck on this fine eve.” Smiling at a silver platter, gleaming, he plucks a rich, ripe grape from its vine now, bringing it to his mouth and popping it in with satisfaction. “I’m very tired, so I think I might just sit here and take my drink.”

“Stand up.”

Loki’s caught off-guard. “What?”

“ _Stand up._ ”

After a moment, and to both of their surprise, Loki does as requested. He drags the chair out with a screeching echo across the floor as his brother had done moments before; rises, stands flush beside it.

“I’ve had _much_ fun betraying you once more,” Loki starts, reaching down for his goblet, “and I am to take my punishment well, brother.” His voice is haughty and yet strained with hurt. Now empty, he discards the cup to the ground. Neither watch it rattle and roll across the floor. “ _Do your worst._ ”

Thor is all but running across the rest of the huge table in confident, angry strides. The noise of clattering plates and falling food reverberates around the hall. Loki is braced, but he doesn’t move, he doesn’t even _flinch_ — as though he’s ready for whatever deserved assault Thor has planned for him. The only thing that changes is his grin, which turns even more malevolent in anticipation for violence.

When Thor reaches the end of the table, he aims directly for Loki, grabbing him by the throat and shunning him into the wall. He could kill him, could choke the life from him. It would be well-deserved, for all the deception and heartache.

Instead, blindsided and dizzy with emotion, Thor pushes Loki down to the floor and crashes their lips together.

And oh, what a kiss it is. Loki yields beneath him like a lotus flower, beautiful and delicate. They both hum with unexpected pleasure, until Loki pulls back and connects his fist with Thor’s jaw.

“Fight me, you brute!” he tries, “You oaf, you—” but Thor pins Loki’s hands down with ease —goodness, he really _must_ be exhausted with it all— just above his head while staring down into wide, terrified eyes. “Wh-what are we doing?”

“I’m tired too, brother.” Thor says it sadly, _honestly_ , and then he kisses Loki again, tongue brushing soft against firm lips and teeth that heed all too quickly. Loki moans into his mouth, mewls like an animal starved of attention. Then, soon enough, he grabs fistfuls of blonde hair with greedy palms.

With his own wilful hands, Thor explores parts of Loki’s body that have plagued his thoughts for longer than he would care to admit—or even remember. He drags across the pale, lithe concave of belly, brow furrowing as he comes to a halt and breaks their kiss.

“Have you been eating?” he asks, suddenly serious.

Loki shrugs off the cosseting. “I’ve had too much hunger to sate,” he says, baring his teeth with a caustic smile and then biting at Thor’s neck.

Thor bristles with displeasure, but it does not last as Loki plunges deft fingers into his breeches, and instead he curls over his brother and exhales, struggling to stay upright with it all.

“The table,” Loki manages between breaths. Thor somehow finds the strength to pick him up, continuing to lave Loki’s throat with a coaxing mouth and particularly enjoying it when Loki wraps legs tight around his waist.

He carries Loki to the disarrayed table, laying him down among the scraps of meat and spilled wine. It still smells delicious, even _looks_ delicious, and Loki bares his teeth once more.

“Look at all this decadence laid out for you, brother,” Loki notes, sticking his fingers in the glaze from some braised meat. “Such _waste_.”

“Is this what you want, then?” Thor grabs fistfuls from the platters and shoves them into Loki’s mouth until he is all but choking. “ _Is it? Do speak up._ ”

Loki spits the food straight back at Thor and struggles beneath the deadweight; Thor laughs, grabbing Loki’s sticky fingers and sucking them dry. The response is a babbling little thing in Loki’s throat as Thor’s mouth grins around the digits, biting down just ever so slightly.

Wanting to taste more, he loosens his grip of Loki and allows hands to wander. He pulls down tight leather trousers, choosing to peel them off in slow satisfaction rather than tear them to ribbons, and intakes breath deeply when he reaches the reward.

The scent of his brother is nothing short of delectable. Thor drags his tongue up the inside of Loki’s leg, mind engulfed in pleasure, and gently laps his tongue upwards— right to the place he desires to taste far more than any mere pastry or hunk of meat to be found upon a platter.

As his mouth closes around the head of Loki’s cock, he _knows_ there will never be anything better.

Loki cries out in pleasure and submission both, knots his hands into Thor’s dirty blonde locks and grips tight. It makes Thor hum appreciatively— taking the flesh with a clenched, greedy jaw as Loki thrusts carelessly upwards into his face.

“Mm, yes,” Loki mutters when Thor’s hands keep his writhing legs pinned down to the table— the sheer, effortless strength a deadly prospect.

Suddenly and ever-mercurial, Loki sits upright and shoves Thor off of him. “Not like this,” he says with a wicked face, turning himself around. “Like _this_.” He sticks his bare behind into the air, stretching himself out with the spread of his cheeks.

Thor’s entire body prickles with heat at the display; how _filthy_ and wanton his brother really is. How much Loki wants Thor is plain to see. Each and every movement is thick with lust; shaking hands grab for the toppled-over vial of oil across the table— a much better use than glazing vegetables it has now— and Loki presses into himself, stifling a cry of pleasure as two fingers glide in with absolute ease.

The realisation tingles its way from the pit of Thor’s belly— that his brother clearly spent time readying himself earlier this eve.

“Presumptuous, aren’t you?” Thor murmurs into Loki’s ear as he leans over the pale, lithe body, easing the fingers out with a gentle _pop_ and then unbuckling his own breeches with measure he didn’t believe still attainable.

Loki’s reply is hoarse with desire and spite. “I’ve been waiting,” he says, turning his head around and offering seductive reply into Thor’s neck, “for far longer than you could even fathom.”

“Is that so?” Thor offers as he drags his hard length up the back of Loki’s thigh, Loki buckling beneath the movement. Allowing himself a moment to admire his brother beneath him— _heart-racing and alive_ , Thor presses his fingers into the quaking, marred flesh of Loki’s back, and then he realises that Loki is not only shaking with arousal, but trepidation too.

“Would you have me stop?” Thor asks gently, suddenly himself terrified.

“I would have you _never stop_ ,” Loki lambasts, rolling his head back with laughter. “Fool.”

When Thor pushes in, he finally understands it all.

He is home.

As they fuck among the fruits of Asgard— slow, sensual, frantic and desperate, he wonders just how long Loki _has_ been waiting. He feels every inch of his brother’s pale skin, closes his palm tightly around his bared throat just to feel the hammering pulse, steadies himself against flesh and loses his damned mind within the beautiful chaos.

When Loki comes, he bites down so hard on Thor’s hand that he draws blood. When Thor comes, he cries out Loki’s name as if it were a malediction, shuddering as his body is consumed with bright-hot pleasure he did not know possible.

Afterwards, Loki pulls the seat upright. He roots through the mess of the table to find the rest of the blood red apple, still fresh, and takes another huge bite, offering Thor what’s left.

Thor accepts graciously, watching his brother with a mindful eye.

“I do believe I made the correct choice,” Loki says, then retrieving his daggers from their hiding place underneath the table, smirk quite hidden from his face. His silvertongue drips condescension and decorum, but his eyes are vulnerable and chaotic beneath the thinnest veil of ice. He throws the items onto the now-ruined feast, where they clatter against dinted platters. “Would you agree, dear brother?”

“Let us go another round,” Thor says, matching his brother’s non-smirk, and capturing him close, before pulling back ever so slightly. “Just to be certain, of course.”

“Of _course_ ,” Loki retorts, digging his fingernails into Thor’s broad shoulders and claiming lips with teeth.

In spite of everything, it sure felt good to be home.


End file.
